


Clockwork

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tied him to a *tree*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork

He's not even sure how long he's been out here.  He thinks it's  
getting colder, but that might just be his body cooling off.  He was  
too hot when he left the party.  Ducked out into the rain because he  
was already soaking wet, sweating as hard in the press of bodies as he  
usually was in mid-performance.  Everyone who touched him came away  
shining.  The glitter he'd slicked over himself in the late afternoon  
dissolved when it was wet.  Under the theatre lights, it was  
spectacular.  He knows someday, when their fanbase is old enough,  
they'll be able to shed most of the costumes and do the shows in body  
glitter.  Someday, sooner that he thinks.

Not yet.

For now he's still mostly dressed, his vamped-out tux open and his tie  
loose around his neck, watching the remaining glitter melt off his  
chest in the Westchester rain.  His shoulders hurt from the time he's  
spent with his hands tied above his head, and there's water dripping  
into his eyes.  He's hidden so deep in the garden he wonders if  
they'll find him at all.

There are lessons he's learned in the last six or so years, and one of  
them is that Lance is a mean, sneaky fucker.  Not vicious, though.  If  
he's still out here by morning, Lance will come back for him.  Long  
hours between now and then to consider the lesson at hand.  It's not  
so much 'don't spy on people' as 'good voyeurs don't make noise.'  No  
sound is acceptable, even it it slides out watching Joey and Lance in  
mid-kiss.

They were gorgeous together, though.  Slick and happy, both laughing  
in between kisses.  Soaking wet, shirts untucked, and he thought maybe  
they'd been swimming in their clothes.  Buried in this maze of plant  
life and too fascinated with each other to notice the noise JC made  
the last time he ran into something invisible in the dark.

He's sure he knew about them before.  He must have.  He lives with  
them, travels with them, sleeps against them on impossibly long bus  
trips.

Lance's hands on his ribs were warm.  Under his jacket, holding him  
still.  

*Whatcha doin' here, Jayce?*  

Stroke.  

*No, you know.  Come on.*  

Pulling his shirt loose, touching him underneath.  

*Did you follow us?*  

Looping Lance's tie around his wrists.  

*Did you think we were pretty?*  

Against the hedge wall.

*Did you wish you were Joey?*

Soft kiss on his mouth.

*Or did you wish you were me?*

Harder.

*Next time, be quiet.*

And tied him.  Hand-dyed silk around his wrists, around a branch, and  
he didn't have any leverage.  JC hung where while Lance kissed him  
again, rubbed a thigh against his erection, and stepped back.  Joey  
was mostly shadowed, watching them.  He only stepped out for a second,  
to brush a kiss across JC's mouth and touch their foreheads together.    
Then gone, trailing after Lance into the wet dark, holding his hand  
like a man drowning.

He doesn't know how long ago that was.  His watch is over his head,  
out of sight.  It's a tiny piece of art, all platinum and sapphires  
and clockwork, soundless except for the breath-quiet tick-tick-tick.

He's starting to shiver, thinking about screaming.  It's only a  
hundred or so yards to the house; it glows faintly, off to his left.    
But it's not the kind of party that drives people outside, except for  
him and people going to have quiet, private, unbearably hot sex in the  
shrubbery, and he's not sure there's anyone to hear him.

"Hey.  Shit."

It takes JC a second to place the voice.  In a perfect world, Justin  
would come and find him, because Justin would be too embarassed to bug  
him about it much.  Chris would never let him live it down.  Someone  
who worked on the estate would be fine, as long as he could convince  
them to sign a nondisclosure agreement.  Anyone from the press would  
be very, very bad.  There were a few of them at the party, he was  
sure.  Very bad.

"Chasez?"

"Um, yeah."  

Marshall Mathers the Third.  Also very bad.  JC might still have most  
of his clothes on, but his shirt's open and his arms are up, and his  
belly is exposed to anyone who might want to hit him.

*I will hit a girl with glasses.  I will hit a diva boy band faggot.*

JC wonders if there's any non-pussy way to say 'please don't hit me.'

"You wanna get me down?"

Dark eyebrows climb.  "How the *fuck* did you end up like that?"  

"You know that urban legend about the girl who promises you a blow job  
if you'll just put the cuffs on?  True."

Mathers snorts.  "I *know* that bitch.  Got me when I was a punk-ass  
kid."  JC isn't sure whether he's joking.  He doesn't look quite so  
... whatever his usual look is.  JC isn't sure he has a name for it,  
but he is fairly sure that he isn't as likely to get hit if the look  
goes away.

"Sooooo ... you're gonna untie me, right?  'Cause you've been here?"

"No fucking way, man.  I had to wait until the fucking garbage man  
found me.  Five in the morning.  I was so cold I couldn't fucking  
believe it."

"I bet it was raining."

"Snow."  Detroit.  Right.  It never snows in Orlando.  Just that once.    
All the flowers encased in perfect ice, and all of them curled up  
around the space heater that lived in the basement of Lance's house,  
trying to keep warm.

"Rain itches more than snow."

"Nobody ever froze their balls off standing in the rain."  

JC shivers.  He manages to make it voluntary halfway through, play it  
up a bit.  A couple of months of belly dancing classes with this  
fantastic girl let him move the shiver through his stomach without  
actually moving at all.  Bare skin that he maybe hopes catches the  
light.

"Untie me."

"No."

"Please."

"It's usually me hearing 'what part of no do you not understand?'"

JC whimpers a bit, pulls at the knots, only manages to make them  
tighter.  Growls in frustration and lets it run all down his body,  
down into the ground and out of his system.  Breathing in the wet dark  
with his eyes closed.

"Fuck, Chasez.  You're trying to seduce me."

It's a joke he gets right away, for some reason.  And he can just  
picture the camera shot, under his knee, the great Eminem in the  
doorway.  JC laughing.  And he does laugh, though maybe not quite in  
that Anne Bancroft way, just helpless in the image.

"Aren't you."  And.  Fuck.  Nails across his belly, below his navel.    
*Sharp.*  This is the damage that nails do when you bite them and  
leave them jagged rather than getting a manicure like a civilized  
person.

"No."  Shiver.  He can feel the track of each finger.

Nails dig into his hip for a moment, hard enough to hurt, then  
disappear.  A warm palm covers his navel.

It feels unreasonably good.  He can feel every prickle on his skin  
after so much time spent straining towards anything at all.  Warm skin  
in the cold air and rain.  Warm male body very close to his, sweat  
from the party's heat and sharp cologne.  JC's still strung out on the  
sight of Joey and Lance together; this is more than he needs right  
now.

"You really like that, don't you?"

He shakes his head automatically.  It's not quite disgust in Mathers'  
voice, but.  JC's already ripped open like this.  If he gives up  
anything else...

"You've got to be the prettiest faggot-ass boy in this whole fucking  
place."  Voice like the ragged nails dragging across his skin just  
above his belt before pulling back completely.

"My arms hurt."

"You look like a whore."  JC's eyes snap open and Mathers.  Laughs at  
him.  Snarky little laugh.  Hands in his pockets, face half in shadow.    
"You go down like a little bitch for it, don't you?  Lie on your back  
and tie yourself up and get fucked."  Wet lips in the wet dark.  "Like  
you just spread your legs for it any time someone touches you."

It should hurt more.  But it's this low, crawling voice, and he makes  
it sound almost good.  Like he could just lean back and relax and let  
sex crawl all over him.

"You love it."  Breath close to him, somewhere that he can't focus on.    
"Everybody in this business knows you get hard just from people  
watching you.

"I mean, *fuck.*  You're already showing."

Somehow, he does it without ever touching skin.  The buckle on his  
belt gives, loosens the waist of his pants just enough that the tip of  
his cock can push up above the waistline.  Low cut on the pants that  
he loved when he pulled them off the stylist's rack, day before  
yesterday.

"I bet that really fucking hurts, doesn't it?"

JC hisses.  It's *cold*.  There's water on his skin, all pooling in  
the hollows of his belly, and his cock's hot enough that the water  
feels like ice, hitting it.  He wants to get down from here.  Find  
some warm, dark corner and jerk off.  Find some warm, dark body to  
curl around and fuck until morning.  Somebody to bite him and wrap  
around him and suck on his tongue.

"I could tell you everything you're thinking just by the way your  
stomach moves.  Jesus Christ.  I should cut that whole branch off and  
drag you inside like this.  Find out who every faggot from here to  
Philly is.  Throw you down on the floor and let you suck them."

JC says, "Let you suck me."

Slap-rip of nails across his aching skin.  He's going to bleed the  
next time that happens.  "Like fuck.  Let you suck *me*.  Drag you in  
there and make you suck my dick.  See what that mouth is good for."

Then closer, softer.  "I'd take you out to my limo, after.  Let you  
kneel on the floor and suck me again.  Think you'd like that?"  The  
fingers are back, loose in the edges of his hair.  Combing it just  
enough to make JC think of warm, friendly fingers rubbing his scalp.    
Asking for it.

God, he hurts.  Everything hurts.  He wants to take his skin off.  He  
wants his arms back and his cock loose and a touch, *anywhere.*

There.  On his side, inside the fall of his shirt.  Warm and dry,  
gentler than he expected.  Good enough to make him whimper out loud.

"Take you back with me.  Lay you out and fuck you like a dog."    
Stroking up to his armpit, down to his hip.  A thumb hooks in the  
hollows between JC's ribs.

He shivers.

"Fuck you like a bitch."

Fingers at his waist.  The only time they leave is the necessary  
couple of inches to avoid his cock completely.  "Fuck you like a  
girl."

"Yesssss."

"Hold you down."

"Yes."

"Tie you up."

"Yes."

"Cut you up."

Breath.  He couldn't make it a word if he tried.

"Let me carve myself all over you."

JC whimpers.

"Think you know what I'd look like with your blood on my lips?"

One sharp nail cuts across his chest from one nipple to the other,  
pushing so deep that he doesn't know whether it's warm rain or blood  
on his skin.  One hard grind of a hip against his cock.  That's all.  

There's a slick, nylon-covered shoulder up close to his mouth when he  
comes.  Near enough that he can sag onto it, after.  Warm/cold semen  
on his chest, on that nylon jacket.  Stains that'll show up the next  
time either of them steps into fluorescent light.

Teeth close over JC's earlobe once, gently.

Slip of a switchblade opening, rasp of cutting silk.  Marshall catches  
him before he falls.  Eases him onto the ground.

The shadows are warmer than they should be.  Body heat gathers in them  
and steams.  Fingers slide through his wet hair and down to his  
shoulders, help him work the joints loose.  It hurts.  Even the  
fingers working him gently out of spasm hurt.

Just.  Later.  When he can move his arms again, when he's curled  
around himself with his shirt half-buttoned, still hiding in the  
hedge's shadow, he realizes that he's not alone.  Marshall's been  
sitting next to him since he fell.  Quiet beside him, and hard.

He only growls quietly when JC pushes up onto his forearms and leans  
over his lap.  JC's waiting for the slap, maybe a long string of  
profanity, all of it pushing him away.  Anything other than perfectly  
normal fingertips, pulling him in, this perfectly normal male reaction  
to an offered blow job.

Body-warm cloth against his face.  They're both soaking from the rain,  
but Marshall less so than JC.  Slick skin in his mouth.  He never gets  
used to the taste, but he doesn't dislike it, either.  This  
incredible, intimate moment with another man's flesh in his mouth.  If  
he's careful, he can take it into his throat.  Make it really, really  
good.  Suck and touch until the body under him gives.  Hold it in his  
mouth long enough that his partner can at least pretend he swallowed,  
then spit into the dark.

He bends again, after, and licks it once.  Tucks it away and presses  
his face into the exposed belly flesh before sitting up.

Mathers looks at him hard for a second.  "You good?"

"I'm good."

"'kay, then."  Helps JC up, then wraps his arms around himself and  
disappears into the dark.  Careful steps of a kid used to moving  
without being seen.  Just, in this second when he steps into a pool of  
light from the house and turns to look back, JC can see the glitter  
smeared over his clothes.  He's going to strip down, tonight or  
tomorrow morning, and shower, and JC's going to be all over him, as  
sure as if they'd fucked in the wet grass.

The smell of it's under JC's nails.  Half of him's tempted to hunt  
someone down and touch them all over, just to see if anyone can tell  
that JC Chasez has Eminem all over him.  Even lurking at the dim edges  
of the party, trying to get warm without actually going in, he's sure  
it must be obvious.  He must be almost glowing in the dark.


End file.
